A Warriors Last Words
by Ironed Maidens
Summary: The final words of a somewhat stuckup Treasure Hunter Warrior from the early years of 3E.


Disclaimer: I don't own Morrowind, and Marroa isn't a real Elder Scrolls town. I just added it in for some extra flavor.

I've seen many 'Oh I am trapped in this dungeon and these are my last words' notes before, scribbled down hastily with either blood; a rather barbaric choice in my opinion; or an inkwell, which is nowhere to be found by the corpse (perhaps because the local Crippled Skeletons collect Inkwells and empty ink canisters?) and of course my favorite; the last-words-type of letters carved into stone walls with a dull or rather bland Iron Dagger or (if you come upon a somewhat-non-lousy Adventurer) a Silver Shortsword. But these last words of mine shall be quite different. Quiet different indeed. Now, at my guess, by the time some other Adventurer comes along and finds my body with this note, if they indeed can even find me, I'll be nothing more then a skeleton, so let me give the rundown of myself. I am Addamire Ashanknapisl. Blame my foreign Dunmer ancestors for the last name of unpronounceable deciphering. I am, as stated, a Dunmer, and I have no family; as my mother and father died when I was six in some rather predictable storm out on the jetty in Gnar Mok. Yes, a fine place for a child to grow up, isn't it? Swamp Fever season was always my favorite holiday, when I got to get wrapped up in old, smoggy blankets to keep any infection from getting into my system, ultimately causing me to die a horrible and painful (and not to mention rather gastric) death. As an orphan, I said to myself 'No, I'd rather have a Shalk bite me in the ass than have to go live in some orphanage back in the Indoril Lands.' So I headed to Balmora, eager to see the city streets lit up at night with glowing torches of the patrolling guards. Even more eager to learn how to steal food from random and non-sanitary urns and how to wield a dagger…oh yes, I wanted to be a little Thief, because I was a little hoodlum back in my adolescent years, waning to training until I finally could make a man of myself. But I turned out much differently then my dreams trailed onto. Somewhere along the road, I got Thief and Freelancing Adventurer mixed up. I was running, to and fro, from Ancestral Burials to murky and dank dungeons. I even got myself a fine short blade in the process, found it half buried in a pile of ash at the bottom of an ancient tomb I did. Now one day I was a six year old orphan, willing the streets of Balmora in search of even degrading food scraps; the next I was a twenty some-odd year old Explorer with his eyes on the tops of the mountains of life; loving every aspect of it, and even getting all the ladies I ever wanted. I had fame, and even a bit of fortune. I donated several occult items of Deadric worship to the Morrowind Museum of Historical Lore back in the Mainland, and was paid handsomely for all four items:

An anciently forged Long Sword

A beaker with a sacred blood confined within it

A dark red and black decorative bowl with runes upon runes running smoothly on the inside

And the most precious of them all, a great Enchanted Amulet that summoned a Deadroth to your side for an hour or so, made of pure Deadric Ebony, one of the most sacred resources from deep within Nirn's earth.

I was, with certain non-doubts, rather famous. I had Great House Redoran Councilors' own secretaries approach me one day in the fields on the outskirts to the southeast of Khull. They wanted me to join their House, in hopes that my skill in battle would bring back, if not completely restore, the honor and reputation of the Redoran. Now I did get rather skilled at long blades, but I still loved my short blade I found in that tomb on that faithful day. (Shimisil, I learned it was called from a close friend of mine back at the Morrowind Museum of Historical Lore.) So I declined, as the Redoran only takes the likings of long blades. I grew older though, and by age thirty I was a fulltime Treasure Hunter. I wanted everything and anything and all in between and left and right and up and down that was worth considerable value. I had gotten enough cache off of my loot that I was able to rent out a lofty flat in the formidable city of Vivec upon the St. Olms canton. But, alas, one day; only a day ago; I stumbled upon this fine tomb-city of Ald Redaynia. Inside were treasures I could only prophesize of. Down in the basement, leveled with the sea, I strafed along a thin wall, killed a Dremora Lord, and traveled down a long, windy path downwards to perhaps the very floor of the Sea of Ghosts itself. There I found it; the finest treasury ever. A small vault with two dozen chests filling up the coves dug deep into the walls up towards the ceiling. On the floor, another dozen or so chests, and in the middle of the room, a coffin of fine Ebony; perhaps a worn tomb of Deadric Ebony; lay closed and sealed shut, ALMSIVI only knows what it contained. Within the chests along the inside of the walls where were intangible amounts of gold; millions. Not only that, but there was a full set of Enchanted High Dwermer Templar armor. Words still even escape my mind trying to describe its beauty, its craftsmanship, its detail, and most of all, its protection. And to top it all off, I found; buried deep within the last chest on the left wall (it was a very fine oaken chest, polished and shining, the buckled latch glistening gold) underneath a large stack of gold; a longsword. I had seen a sketch of it before, not from any historian or treasury book, but from Elders, describing it in begotten scriptures from possibly Akavir, due to their impossible-to-even-make-nonsense-of characters. But the sketch was clear. I had found the scriptures back in the Mainland, when I was visiting the now-extinguished colony of Marroa, to visit with Crusaders from Dragon Glade, just east of Marroa. I was teaching the Crusaders how to take and inflict high-scale damage. In some cavern in the late misty night I found them. They were deep within the cavern, guarded by the exoskeleton of some gigantic Scarab-like creature. The scriptures I sold off, but I kept the sketch. I wish I had it now, as to keep it from any other's eyes. But it is back at my flat, residing peacefully within my master-locked desk drawer nest to my Snow Wolf Pelt canvas bed. Oh, how I miss my home. Splatters that clearly resemble dried up tear drops dot the rest of the page, but the writing is still readable. O, the shameless woe I have for my ill-founded glory. I should have washed away with my parents. Any way, the blade will hopefully rest with me for all eternity, but if not, I can only pray to the Three that the new wielder is of un-renown skill. The blade of the sword was fine, light, and sharper than any I had ever encountered. With unknown ritualistic runes running down the middle in a vertical fashion, it proved to be of either angelic properties, or demonic plague. The hilt, oh the hilt; how finely crafted it is. I will not describe it, for one must see it with their own eyes to know its beauty. Then, inside the chests on the ground, I found even more millions of gold. And along with that, an amulet that (when I put the platinum chain around my neck) made me feel literally ten times stronger, faster, and smarter. With that, I found yet another entire suite of armor, including a shield. There was a note scribbled down on top of the armor (as the entire set had its own chest). It read:

To the Soul Reapers, a toast.

So the set of Soul Reaper armor was mine, along with a bottle of, and I say this from experience, MARVELOUS whiskey. I did not take even a drink of it, just merely smelt it, and my throat flared up. The armor though, that is what the real whiskey was. It was heavy, I'll give it that, but thanks to the amulet I found, I put it all on with ease. Again; I cannot even begin to describe the beauty and detail of the armor, only to say that it was a deep, almost entrancing, almost voided black. Of sundered and forecasted brimstone, it was. The helmet looked like a demons head; a vile, wicked, tortured demon. Then, I opened it.

The tomb.

As soon as I lifted the top off of the casket (with endurable effort, as the top weighted easily, at a poor and inaccurate guess, more than half a ton) a thick, green cloud rose from the hairline opening I made. I retreated, running slowly, more like shifting myself, up the path; ready to get out and head for the entrance, and back out to the open air, free from the near-sickening and stale air of the tomb-city. But oh no, whatever Damned thing was confined within that gorgeous tomb had other plans. I saw a single blackened hand effortlessly and almost comfortably tumble the top of the casket aside, sending it well-soaring into the side of the vault, causing it to crumble into tiny pieces of ash-like dust. Without reasoning or thinking, I ran faster then I ever had in my entire livelihood upwards. But I could hear the thing right behind me, fast-gaining. I had almost reached the exit to the basement level, after an hour or so of steed-like running, and was tearing with joy as I was almost safe, as the creature would never be able to sidle across the narrow and thin wall, and it had no magic-casting abilities, as it would had already sent fiery balls of chaos at me long ago. But when I was within yards of the opening, a tremendous roar escaped the wind tunnel of the fouled beast. It was so strong, that it made me def, and it is probably the reason for my now-splintered spine. So powerful, that it caused an earthquake. Boulders came toppling down, blocking the opening to the basement, but at the same time, behind me, causing even bigger and more amounts of boulders crashing forward. Luckily I was trapped in a cell made of the two walls of boulders. Behind me, I could hear the beast trying to slash away at the boulders, trying to ease through to get to me. Still, even as I write this, I can hear its stout breathing, wasted gasps trying to fill its old, rotted lungs with air. I know, I am going to die here. That is why I write this summary of my past, and how I came to be. I still hold all the possessions I found in the vault on me. I do congratulate and applaud the person who finds my body, for they will find with it, a haul of over-excising loot. But please, do read this note first, and if you are no more then a pitiful Thief, as I once wanted to be, or a poor beggar, or even a simple adventurer, leave the loot alone. I ask for only a valorous and worthy Treasure Seeker, as strong as (if not, stronger than…if that's even possible) me. If you also happen to slay the beast (as it will still be alive, because with no doubt it is undead) please, find what the super guarded treasure is that lies in the casket, if there is anything at all. If you do slay the beast, you are also the most courageous warrior to ever walk Tamriel. I do take my meager time to write down this lengthy note, my 'final words', but I do have a vast amount of time, for as a lay here, paralyzed from the waist down, my oxygen still somewhat healthy and surly in a great quantity, I have this ring with me, chained with a leather tether around my neck. The one I always kept from my father's corpse as the Hlallu officers dragged my parents' (along with many others') bodies back to shore after the storm. It keeps me alive a little bit, as I can feel it restoring a tiny amount of my life when I press it against my chest. It hangs there, along with the amulet I found deep within the vault. But that somehow just isn't enough; the Ogrim-like strength just is not what is keeping me alive in this perilous state. Sadly, I mudt enforce the end of this short book, as I now run out of ink, and I grow weary, I must rest. Good bye, Nirn. Good bye, Tamriel. Good bye...Morrowind. May whoever ventures upon my mangled and disfigured corpse have a fine life with the enormous riches they find, and remember; always walk the un-turreted path. Always walk with the wind to your back.


End file.
